I feel certain my father is laughing uncontrollably as he rolls over in his grave. When I peered at the webpage, I howled with laughter. The cause of this jocular reaction was Williams-Sonoma. For years I have been fan of its emporium. Happily I leaf through its catalogues of innovative kitchen and house wares. However, in perusing its web page, I was caught up short by what I saw: chicken coops.
My father always maintained a dozen hens, plus one rooster, that resided in a white ranch-style chicken coop my grandfather built. Inside the coop, stood a wall of metal chicken cubbies in which “the girls”could roost and lay their eggs in private. Fresh hay filled each cubby for the comfort of the laying hens. Family photographs verify that Daddy preferred the snowy white Leghorn, though in later years he often had Rhode Island Reds. The Leghorn roosters, particularly impressive as they strutted with their lipstick red cowls, cock-a-doodle-doo-d without fail at sunrise Most Italians living in the countryside around my hometown kept chickens. The chickens served a two-fold purpose: they provided fresh eggs, and later, served up as dinner. Our chickens had much space in which to scratch and run since the fenced in chicken park was within our one-acre cyclone-fenced orchard.
Today high-priced chicken coops are for sale. I admit these coops look nice and likely accommodate two to three chickens. The price tag on these is hilarious because the Italians I knew built their own coops at little cost. However, in this day of eco-friendly, organic food, yet another Italian staple has been appropriated. It was bad enough when the upper-middle class “discovered” biscotti, which Italians had been baking for millennia. Of course, these yuppie-doodles mispronounced the Italian biscotti [they say “bis-cah-ti”, instead of “bis-cote-ti”]. In their self-aggrandizing world, maybe they pronounce, “chicken coop” as “chicken copa”, as if Ricky Ricardo were playing a gig amongst the fowl.
I am clucking with laughter.
Ciao for now.